In the Streets of Paris
by Blushing Juliet
Summary: Combo of Scarlet Pimpernel, POTO, & Les Mis. What if... no boundary in time existed between these tales? As their own stories come to a close, new ones arise as the fates of these people will cross paths and combine to create a story anew.
1. A Bittersweet Freedom

**A/N:**** This is my first time publishing something here, but I hope you all enjoy! As stated in the summary, this is a combination of Scarlet Pimpernel, Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables, taking place during the French Revolution. It jumps around between characters, so there are different things going on at different times, and it's a bit schizophrenic in nature.**

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, The Scarlet Pimpernel, or Les Miserables, because I am not nearly as brilliant as Leroux, Hugo, Orczy, Llyod Webber, Wildhorn, or Schönberg, and I never ever will be. **

**In the Streets of Paris**

_By Blushing Juliet_

Christine Daae

Think of me,  
think of me waking,  
silent and  
resigned.  
Imagine me,  
trying too hard  
to put you  
from my mind.

The lake water swarms around my pale legs, the pale filmy skirt becomes translucent and caught up in the tide, swimming around in the green glass. I can still feel that kiss upon me. The warmth of it freezes there as if tattooed upon my lips, and seeping into the creases.

The silence that had resided in my mind before was deceiving, for it was only a false silence. Now the trembling of the foundation of the Opera House rumbles in my ears like a growling beast, the stone shifts above my head. Flames lick away hungrily all around me, only teasing fire, still youthful, and not fully yet capable of destruction. Sparks spawn from those childish dancing flames, sifting through the air as it grows increasingly hotter, even though the water swirling around my knees is bitter and freezing, as if the lower half of me had broken through the ice of a winter pond.

I can hear the shouts floors above me, and the dampened roar of the fire consuming my home as I run. And amidst this chaos crumbling around me, I halt and turn back, the white wedding dress curving along with my body in the lake.

The spikes of the gate that had trapped me hover, as if threatening to plunge down and seal away that hell. But I am no longer there. I am no longer trapped. I can see the flickering soft glow of the hundreds of candles within their light sheds upon a bit of the swan bed, and the twisted Gothic organ. But you are not within my view. I know you are there.

Someone will be trapped. It will be you, you my Angel. You will be condemned to this living nightmare of darkness, eternally damned to live alone. And it shall not be those hovering gates or any physical or architectural means that shall bind you. I'm sorry I could not free you. I tried, but you refused to keep me. Even though I gave you my kiss, and you took it, like you have taken so many things from me. My shoulders shake as I remember your voice when it first appeared in my dressing room that one day. That one day when I had been innocent. That was the beginning of the end, and here we are, here I am, as the curtains draw closed on our story.

But... must they? Can I still save you? Is there still time? You send terror riding along with my blood cells and cause fear to rise upon my bones. But I pity you... I hold compassion here, even though you frighten me so. My foot wanders forward, in the opposite direction of where I had been fleeing, in the opposite direction of the air and the light. Back to you.

Raoul's hand grasps my wrist and I twist to face him. His face is etched with concern, but an almost invisible fire or defiance lies there. His blue eyes are raging like the choppy, billowing sea within him. He won't let me go back to you. He wants to save me. He knows I cannot return.

"Christine, what are you thinking?" he bellows over the growing roar of the fire overhead. "You can't go back there."

Despite his words, my gaze travels behind me once more.

His hands move to my shoulders, and he shakes me and my heart rattles around in my chest. "Christine, listen to me," he states desperately, almost harshly. "You can't go back there. Not to him. Please, not to him."

Tears are building in those twin pools of sky and sun and sea. He is terrified, but he is wounded that I even consider going back to you. He doesn't understand how I could dare think it. I've been so cruel to him. He has given me his love, given me everything. And all I have given him is a lifeless girl, hardly a lover. But still he presses on. He loves me; he wants to liberate me.

I swallow, my eyes locked on his, and his hands digging into my shoulders. The Opera House gives a warning, and I can sense the shifting in the air above us. Raoul jerks his head up, and his gaze is on me again. "Go!" he shouts, and pushes me forward. I stumble, but I run.

Suddenly, a crack jolts through the stones above me, as they grind and creak menacingly. The Opera House screams out as the foundation starts to crumble beneath her. The wailing song of the building quakes like the ground below the water around my feet. In this instant, I turn again and freeze.

Time slows as my eyes fall upon Raoul, but he is not looking at me. His face is heaven bent, chin in the air. My eyes fall upon what he staring at in horror. The ceiling seems to struggle for a moment, as if attempting to defy gravity and to not to heed to the destruction weakening it. But in the next moment the stone breaks loose, great tumbling boulders crash down, and Raoul's eyes capture mine for a split second, those raining skies snatch my gaze, as his mouth forms two syllables, _"Christine." _I know no sound has spilled from his lips but I can hear his voice as clearly as if he is beside me. And the next moment he is gone from my view, crushed beneath the rocks.

There is no hesitation, no question in my mind. I know that he is dead.

But still a strangled cry struggles out. "Raoul," I rasp, the moment replaying over and over and his voice echoing in my ears without end.

The false silence hits me again, consuming my brain, only to be shattered by the groaning of the foundation, and I start running again. My mind is controlling me now. My heart is screaming to run back, but my mind pays no attention, and forces my feet to lift off the bed of the lake, time after time, as the water sloshes up around my hips.

My feet finally hit solid ground, but I do not break my stride. I am racing, racing up those twisting cold steps, ones that had been lit with warmth, but only for me.

I break through to the surface and the blast of the heat lurches forward and sweeps me up in its blazing grasp. This is a full-blown fire, not like the gentle flares below, which were probably maturing at this moment. The flame's breath reaches out and slaps my cheeks, beats my limbs and wrings my neck. But I keep running.

The screams of frantic urgency reach my ears, faint, farther towards the exit. Nothing back here. Everyone is out of here—safe--or else lying back here--dead. The smoke forces its way into my mouth, choking me, and fills my lungs with its fatal seducing gas, gray as granite, thick as ash.

My breath is starting to fail me, and my eyes are stinging, the smoke pricking away at my pupils. My mind and body calls out for the sweet release of unconsciousness, of having not having to breathe--of the blissfulness of nothing.

The golden doors are up ahead of me, split open the reveal the royal blue night sky, which is blanketed in a coating of stars. Some sweet air reaches out and tempts me and drives me to take those last few steps.

And I am out. I am free. I can breath. I choke on the shock of fresh air and the remaining twists of smoke still clutching at the insides of my lungs. My body fails me and crumples to the ground, falling against the pavement that mirrors the golden and orange and red and blue fire that dance in triumph.

It is now that tears seep out of my eyes, and gently sting at my cheeks as they caress them, before they slip off my skin and puddle at my feet. People swarm around me, but no one looks and sees the famous soprano, Christine Daae. They only see a poor girl wracked with coughs and in a singed soaking wedding dress.

I glance up once more at the building of song, of dance and wonders. Soon it will be nothing. Yet here is where it began, and this is where it all ends. Here on these Parisian streets before the place where my Angel shaped my fate that now leaves me lying here.


	2. Watching

**A/N: Haha, I'm glad you feel accomplished! I heart you Pasket! Thank you for being such as an amazing beta-er. :-) **

Chauvelin

_And soon the moon will smolder,  
And the winds will drive.  
Yes, a man grows older,  
But his soul remains alive.  
All those tremulous stars still glitter.  
I will survive!  
Let my heart grow colder,  
And as bitter as,  
A falcon in the dive._

The buzz of the of multiple voices filters around me. It curves along the rim of my ear and curling down around my earlobe. The atmosphere is warm with the collection of heat of all the bodies mingling in the room. The stench of alcohol rolls off the tongues of several of the people, mine included. A few candles and oil lamps illuminate the room with a fuzzy, dim glow. It is dark. This is where I thrive.

The dark coats me and coats all of us. It caresses Marguerite's soft cheek; it chisels her brother Armand's sharp features, and even in the blanket of the dark, and it does not hide the other man from me, though he must wish it did. But it does not, and I see him, that blasted man, my prey, though he cannot think of me being here. He suspects nothing.

And why would he? Why would he ever suspect that I would come after him, after our "final" duel? But only he thinks it was the final one. No, it is not nearly over, it never will be until his face is pinned beneath my boot and the blood gushes from his mouth. Then, and only then, shall I be satisfied. I shall not give up until that scurrilous phantom has breathed his last breath.

I observe him and his companions from afar, over the edge of the glass that contains the whiskey that sloshes down my throat and lingers on my lips. He smiles, laughs even. His one hand curves around Marguerite's waist, and he pauses to gently rub his thumb over her cheek. How dare he laugh! Smile! Hold her in his arms! He thinks he's safe, he thinks they're safe. But his false conclusions will be ripped out from beneath him like a carpet. They're not safe though; he's not, because I know who he is.

He thinks he can don his silly disguises. He's evaded my searches, stayed away from discovery, but now I know who he is. And now he is doomed eternally. Did he really think a scarlet mask; a simple mask would conceal him from me? No, for now after the finale, what he thinks is the finale, I have his identity. I'll have this damned elusive Scarlet Pimpernel in my grasp at last.

I snicker beneath my breath, hidden in the folds of my raven hood. My fists clench on the table. This man has mocked me, taken me for a fool. He thinks he can get away easily! He thinks he is free! No one escapes me. No one escapes this agent. His world will crumble beneath him, because now I have him.

I am only feet away from them. I can see the stubble on Armand's chin. I can see the nimble silver chain of Marguerite's necklace that is pressed against the nape of her neck. How will he cope when he hears her screams ringing through the midnight air and he knows he cannot save her?

This is the price he will pay for eluding me, for outwitting me like a fool. If there is one thing I am not, or never have been is a fool, and he will not escape again, not this time.

I settle back in my chair, as the legs creak beneath me. My hands twitch beneath the black leather gloves. But I will wait; I will bide my time. And then he'll see the sacrifice I will force him to make, and afterwards, I'll drag his bloody corpse back to King Louis himself


	3. In the Midst of the Flames

Madame Aurelia Giry

_ Who scorn his word, beware to those ...  
__The angel sees, the angel knows... __  
__This hour shall see your darkest fears... __  
__The angel knows, the angel hears..._

I linger at the entrance to the stairs one moment longer, one breath longer, looking down into the twisting caverns of the winding pit below.

The boy had disappeared long ago, his chestnut hair holding the last glimmer of the light before all that was left of him was darkness. He is below now; he is there now. With Christine. With _him._

He wanted to go. He begged me to take him to her. _"Where did he take her? Tell, Madame, take me to her." _I had hesitated a moment, but then my resistance had broken as I saw the fire burning in his eyes which held such heated devotion to her, and that youthful impulse. And I could not deny him; it was his choice.

Yet I still linger here, staring into the swirling pit that leads to the nightmarish catacombs below. I could have stopped him... My body jolts forward as my foot touches down on the first step. I can still--

The Opera House rumbles and the ceilings, the walls, the very floors tremble above and beneath and beside me. I pull my eyes from the winding slabs and turn. _If God feels any compassion for you, Raoul, he'll make you remember to keep your hand at the level of your eyes, _I speak to him in my mind.

I start to run, but something pulls me back, and I return my gaze down there. "Goodbye Erik," I whisper aloud, breathing a final farewell to my first love who could never know the emotions locked away within my heart. The conclusion of it swarms around me as my green eyes puddle, letting a murky tear slip from their grasp.

It is the constant roar of the blaze and creaking of the stones that wakes me from my reverie and forces me to dash away, feet pounding along the corridors.

Debris rips away from the floors above me, crashing down at my feet and reaching up to char my dress with the dancing flames. The heat is crawling along my skin, forcing sweat to vent from my pores as the smoke coats me like a thin blanket of dry ash. The bridge that spans the distance of the hallway above gives a shudder as its supports are eaten away by the fire. I run faster, hearing the wrench of it as the wood splinters behind me, melding with the sparks and coals. A whoosh echoes in my ears as the bridge collapses, plummeting through the air. And then... a scream.

I whip about as the bridge crashes to the ground in a tumbling inferno of heat. Golden hair and sparkling blue eyes meet mine through the veil of fire and I let out a strangled cry, "Meg..."

"Mother!" she shrieks, darting around behind the wall of licking flames and twirling smoke, barred from me and from the way to freedom. I rush forward, the fire darting up and down.

"Meg, you must run through before the blaze increases," I instruct.

Meg's eyes widen in fear as she looks at me helplessly. "I can't," she whimpers.

"Yes, you can!" But she won't move. My daughter is frozen like a deer that has just spotted a hunter, in that split second before they fly off. But that split second is lasting far too long. "Here, take my hand!"

I thrust my arm through the wall of fire while the flames take it greedily. Meg stares in horror for a moment, before grasping my hand and I pull her through. She collapses into my arms and for one moment, one blessed moment I hold her, and I breathe.

"Come," I order, grasping her hand. "We must go."

I start racing down the corridors, dragging her behind me. Soon the midnight sky is looming above me and we are free.

"Mother, your hand." Meg's soft voice breaks into my mind.

"It's fine," I grunt, withdrawing it from hers. My hand, wrist and almost entire forearm arm are boiling, the red skin is already beginning to scar, but I clench my teeth and ignore it.

"Where's Christine? Raoul?" whispers Meg, frantically searching the crowd.

"I don't know," I reply, guilt traveling along my shoulders. "But you won't find them here."

Meg sends me a look, knowing what I mean, and her look transforms into fear and concern. "Did they get out?" she breathes, her voice shivering in the night air.

"I don't--"

"There she is!" a voice thunders and suddenly hands are clenched around my arm causing me to wince as the excruciating pain plunges into my arm.

"Monsieur Firmin," I gasp, "What is the meaning of--"

"We are in ruins, Richard!" wails Andre coming up from behind. "All of it is gone!"

"Shut up, man!" scowls Firmin. "You," he hisses, his beady eyes snapping on me. "This is your fault. You protected him. You protected that monstrous devil. And now look at what you've done!"

"We are ruined!" Andre continues to beseech the sky, his body shuddering. "Ruined! Ruined! Bloody ruined!"

"And it's your fault!" Firmin accuses me. "You sheltered that damned beast, and now the fault weighs on your head."

"I warned you..." I protest. I glance down at my arm, as my whole body screams for me to coil away. "Please, Monsieur--"

A mob is gathering around us, encircling us like a pack of wolves.

Firmin sees them and his eyes flash. "Warned us? You spoke nonsense, but you did not help us, Madame! Because you care about that beast... you must be insane! You could have ended this hell, but you didn't! You refused!"

"Piangi's death is your fault!" a scream breaks through the crowd. I see red hair glimmering in the thrashing light of the fire. "My lover is dead because of you!" wails Carlotta, as stage makeup clumps around her eyes and streaks down her cheeks along with salty tears.

The crowd is stirring, as if it had been a panther lying in wait, eyeing its prey, and now it shall pounce.

"And Buquet's death is on your head as well!" bellows a ragged stagehand nearby.

"Two murders that could have been prevented!" screeches a ballerina.

"Two lives stolen because of you!" cries another voice, but I cannot determine who it is now, as the cries and shouts and bellows build up in the tumult, all becoming one great voice.

"It's her fault!"

"The ballet mistress!"

"Madame Giry!"

"Make her pay!"

"Pay for her crimes!"

"Slit her throat!"

"And her little daughter's too!"

"Two lives to repay the price of Piangi and Buquet!"

At this I look over at Meg, who is captured in Firmin's other hand. I dart forward and my teeth sink into his hand binding my daughter. He yelps, releasing my Meg.

"RUN MEG!" I shriek and she shoots me a desperate glance before breaking out of the crowd, pushing through the loop that surrounds me and now closes in even more. Their eyes sparkle with a hunger that will only be quenched at the sight of my blood.

"After her!" commands Andre, and a few men scamper off.

"You're insane!" snarls Firmin, glaring at his hand, where my teeth marks are visible. Then his eyes narrow on me and he presses me against him, fingers digging into my skin as his eyes shine. "Yes..." he almost whispers. "You're insane... aren't you?" But he does not expect an answer.

He faces the crowd. "She has committed many sins!" he bellows over the clamor of the mob and the roar of the fire hundreds of feet away. "But we shall not have her life. She's gone mad, the thoughts in her head don't turn right, do they, my little Madame Giry?" He cackles and I believe he is insane himself. "She speaks of an Angel of Music that whispers in the ears of young sopranos. All I have seen is a vicious murderer, an Angel of Death! She is a lunatic, a dangerous lunatic! She is mad!" He smirks, and that walrus of a mustache bristles triumphantly. "And we know exactly where to put lunatics, don't we Madame?"

The crowd jeers in approval all around me as my knuckles become white from his grasp and my scar throbs beneath his hand. The bitter night wind whips around me, and a draft of smoke captures me and fills my lungs so I cough raggedly. I feel the hungry eyes of the crowd and the howling of a thirst for vengeance. I know it is I that will pay the price.


End file.
